Ghosts That I Knew
by an-otter-and-a-hedgehog
Summary: John Watson is haunted by memories of his past. No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to keep Sherlock out of his life. (Set post-Reichenbach, kind of my headcanon about their reunion.)


**Author's note: **I wrote a draft of this a long time ago, but I revised much of it with inspiration from the lyrics of the following song. The title of the song seemed to fit with this story. Anyway, it starts off all angsty and then I accidentally turned it into some lame gooey stuff. Oops. By the way, no copyright infringement intended!_  
_

* * *

_You saw my pain washed out in the rain_

_Broken glass, saw the blood run from my veins_  
_But you saw no fault, no cracks in my heart_  
_And you knelt beside my hope torn apart_

_But the ghosts that we knew will flicker from view_  
_We'll live a long life_

_So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light_  
_'Cause oh that gave me such a fright_  
_But I will hold as long as you like_  
_Just promise me we'll be alright_

_-Mumford & Sons, Ghosts That We Knew_

* * *

His shaking hands hovered over the keyboard. Every tap resonated throughout the room; every letter that appeared on the screen remained even when he closed his eyes. He sucked in the air around him with quivering lips. Closing his eyes, he brought his clammy palms up to his face in a feeble attempt to push back the oncoming flood of memories. He could feel them bubbling from beyond his pounding temple, festering and popping and itching to be remembered. He dug the base of his palms into his forehead with all the strength he could muster.

_Stay out of my life_, he thought. _Just keep away for once. For just one day, leave me alone_. he silently pleaded.  
He stayed there, breathing shakily, pushing against his reawakening memories, losing track of the time.

The room around him was dark save for the faint glow of the computer lighting up his weathered face. The ragged purple curtains were drawn across the windows as they always were, sealing the grief-stricken man within the confines of the room. All of the furniture was gone except for the table in front of the man and the chair he rested in. The mantle over the fireplace held only the skull of a human, and underneath, a pack of cigarettes. The dust covering the floor was interrupted only by a set of footprints and every few feet, the mark of a small circle. The rest of the room was empty, _so empty_, so unlike the days of its past.  
He could feel them, the memories, clawing their way out of his mind, peering around the corners of his thoughts, tiptoeing past his efforts and spilling out into the air around him. He could no longer prevent them from coming, so his hands fell away from his face and found themselves wrapping around the handle of his cane. He knew it was wrong, he could tell by the uneasiness in his stomach, but he had to open his eyes again. He had to see what his mind had created this time. With a deep breath, he steadied himself with the cane, rose from the chair, and allowed his eyes to flutter open.

Oh, he hated himself, he really did. Glancing around the bright flat before him, he saw everything was once again in its proper place. The mirror on the wall, the stacks of books and magazines, the seats around the fireplace, and the equipment scattered all around the kitchen. It was all back. Everything was a bit too bright, and fuzzy around the edges, but he was here, he was home. As he breathed in the smell of the room, he could hear muffled voices from beyond the door. His heart began to race as the sounds of the figures on the stairs became louder and edged closer. He closed his eyes again and let himself leave his body behind. When he opened them, he was in the doorway, looking in, behind a tall, dark-haired figure in a purple blazer.

"Can you believe it, John?" the man with his back turned said excitedly. "Two murders, two proper murders, and in three days, no less!" he whipped his head around, in evident glee.  
John remembered exactly how he replied, and allowed the conversation to go entirely as it had, but the whole time he couldn't stop staring at Sherlock Holmes, the lanky, murder-happy man in front of him.  
The two men made their way across the room, sunlight streaming in from between the brand-new purple curtains.

"Mrs. Hudson had them in yesterday," Sherlock mused. "I assume you like it."

"I love them, Sherlock, really," John found himself replying. "But I love something else much, much more." he blurted out without meaning to. _Wait_, he thought. _I didn't say that aloud. I don't remember that happening_. His eyes widened as he realised the light was fading. Everything was sinking back down through the floor, first the books, then the furniture and the accessories, and finally, the consulting detective himself was gone, fading away, laughing, saying one word: _John. John. John. John. John_.

He stretched out his hand, trying to cling on to the last traces of the memory, but he found himself stumbling forward back in the present. It was the same room, but it couldn't have felt colder or emptier. He gripped his cane and snapped the computer shut. He ambled over to the mantle, felt under the skull, and pulled out a cigarette. Fumbling around inside his jacket, his fingers grazed across the lighter. He stuck the cigarette between his chapped lips and balanced it with the edges of his teeth as he brought the flame close to the end of the stick. The tip of the cigarette glowed faintly, a beacon of fire in a room of ice and stone. Tiny wisps of smoke curled around him, wrapping him and comforting him with its tendrils. The smoke found the gaping hole in his chest, bowed and entered, and cooed softly as it settled in to fill the emptiness. He felt complete again, felt right, felt whole. He had never been a smoker, always coughed at the clouds of nauseating smog that surrounded those who were. But the smoke reminded him of his flatmate, reminded him of all the "three-patch problems" and the attempts to whittle cigarettes off of anybody. He would beg and beg, never ceasing until his addiction was curbed.

A new memory was clawing its way out of his mind, a different one, one he had long forgotten about. His heavy eyes closed and he felt the warmth of the sun on his face. When he opened his eyes, there he was: cane gone, brown jumper, at the table again, typing on his computer, a different computer. And on the couch across from him, Sherlock lay with his eyes shut, rattling on about some case, a robbery this time, and absentmindedly picking at the three cream-coloured nicotine patches below his right wrist.

"John," murmured Sherlock, opening his eyes and shifting to face his friend.

"What is it this time, Sherlock?" John sighed. He remembered waiting in silence for the response. He was preoccupied with his blog, writing up Sherlock's musings on the case. Almost done with the update, John turned around, just to be greeted by a cloud of bitter smoke.

"God, Sherlock, can't you take it outside this time? You know it makes me sick," John mumbled.  
Sherlock took a long puff of the cigarette. He stepped forward, so close to John-  
And exhaled all of the smoke into John's face.

"Oh, that's mature, Sherlock, real mature," John said between coughs.

"So!" Sherlock yelped, right arm (sans the patches) thrusting into the air. "Was it a robbery?"

John covered his face with his palms. "That's what the case is. That's what you've been saying the whole time, Sherlock,"

"Have I?" Sherlock replied, a look of confusion on his face. "It clearly wasn't, John, as ever, you must think. Who robbed the shop?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I thought it wasn't a robbery, so I have no idea. Look at me, do I look like I know?"

Sherlock leaned over the table, facing John directly. He drummed his slender fingers on the top of the computer. His nose was inches away from John's, and John could smell the remains of the cigarette mixed with something sweet-caramel. He held his breath, allowing Sherlock's to wash over him, to envelop him.

"Nobody robbed it. It was them,"

John snapped out of his trance. "What?" he asked.

"They posed a robbery to attract more business," Sherlock whispered, his grey eyes gleaming. "I'm right, aren't I, of course I'm right, I'm always right!" he laughed, his volume increasing. Sherlock, looking particularly delighted with himself, slammed the screen down with the flick of his index finger. He stepped back from the table, clapping his hands. "Wait until I tell Lestrade, he'll have a proper fit with me!" He scrunched up his face, widened his eyes, and flattened his voice. "No one robs their own shop, Sherlock, what are you going on about?"

John stared blankly at Sherlock's impersonation of the detective inspector.

"What are you on today, Sherlock? Have you been skipping meals again? You're never like this," John said, his mouth agape.

"Precisely!" yelped Sherlock. "Dinner?"

Sighing, John rose from his chair. "Chinese?"

"Who cares, John, I'm not hungry. All I can think about is that gorgeous cigarette that you're hiding in the back pocket of your jeans, you thought I wouldn't notice it, and I want it." he pleaded. When he saw John's unamused face, his lips pursed. With a sigh, he rolled his eyes and muttered: "Please?"

"There you go, Sherlock," John replied.

Sherlock edged forward, hand outstretched. The long, slender fingers of the man grazed the pocket of John's trousers. His heart skipped a beat.

All of a sudden, he imagined Sherlock's fingers moving further, feeling, not brushing-but the light was fading, and he reached in vain for Sherlock's shirt, desperately trying to keep him from fading away, not wanting to face the future without him.

He was standing back in the empty flat now. It was so, so cold.

_That memory was longer than the other one_, he thought. _It felt so real, I thought I was actually there that time_.

Frustrated with the reawakening memories, he grabbed his cane and started to limp out of the flat, cigarette still wobbling between his lips.

_I need to leave. It's still too fresh, it hurts too much. Sherlock, why did you have to leave?_

"You left me behind, Sherlock!" he started to yell. "I'm sick and I'm cold and I feel as if I'm dying! You didn't bother to think of _me_ when you went and jumped, did you?" His head pounded, signalling the first tinges of anger beginning to settle in, and his blood pressure began to rise. "Oh, it's plain old John, why would he care about me, nobody cares about me, nobody lo-" he stopped. There was a creak coming from the stairwell. He couldn't breathe, the pulsating anger was choking him, rendering his lungs incapable of functioning.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed. "Every bloody day, every bloody hour, every single bloody minute, you are following me! Why won't you stay in my mind, why won't you leave me be, why won't you see that I can't go back? I never got the chance to say it, I never got the chance to do it, and every day you remind me that I didn't!" He began to sob, tears spilling from his eyes, and the contents of his nose dripping into his mouth. He ripped the now soggy cigarette from his trembling lips and crushed it in his hand. Brown flakes tumbled to the floor, and a thick, molasses colored liquid seeped into the creases of his palm. In a low, rough voice, he whispered:

"I don't want to remember,"

"Oh John, I think you do," a familiar voice cooed from the doorway.

His head lifted from where it was buried into his chest.  
His raw eyes were greeted by a tall, dark-haired man in a long black coat. The grief-stricken man glared ahead, then shuddered and dug the heels of his palms into his face.

"Stop this," he whispered. "I asked you to stop, I begged you, please, I can't take this anymore," He felt a warm hand on his back.

"It's not your memory, John,"

"Yes it is, yes it is, it's my head, it's killing me, Sherlock," he blubbered. He felt the strong hands spin him around and a thin finger eased his chin up.

"Open your eyes, John,"

"No, I won't, thank you very much, you are from my head, and I'd appreciate if you return there now,"

"Trust me."

His eyes slowly opened. Impossible-Sherlock was still there, crouched above where he sat.

"What-"

"It's me this time, John. It's actually me."

He sucked in the air around him. It was the smell of cigarettes and that same sweet caramel. His breath caught in his throat.

"Three years, Sherlock. If you aren't my imagination, I will-" He was interrupted as smooth pink lips met his. It was Sherlock, it was actually Sherlock, this time it was real.

Sherlock broke away, a perplexed look on his face. "I'm sorry...I don't know what got into me," he mumbled. "That was not planned, John, I-"

"You idiot," John murmured, wiping his sopping eyelashes with the back of his hand. "You bloody idiot. I move in with you. I have the time of my life with you. I thought I even fell in lo-" He stopped and stared down into the floor, letting the rest of the sentence fade into the air. "And then you go and kill yourself." He stopped. The weight of the past still rested on his shoulders. It was heavy, so heavy, and enough to remind him of the pain that had been his only company for the past three years. He flexed his fingers, the knuckles whitening as the anger started to flow back.

"You left me alone for three years, Sherlock._ Three years_. I got addicted to tobacco because it smelled like you. I tried to kill myself. Four times. I just wanted to see your bloody face again. And here you are, here you always are, but this time, you're alive. You could have called, you know. Or texted. _Anything_!'" He stopped for air, breathing heavy and fast. "That would have sufficed," he added, feeling the lump in his throat return. "I was so alone. I was so, so alone, Sherlock."

"And I owe you so much," added Sherlock in a quiet voice. "I heard you talking to me. I thought, John's strong. He can take it. I...I guess this is when someone would apologize, right?"

His apology was returned by a fist in his cheek.

"You bastard. You couldn't just come and say something in person?" John huffed.

"Moriarty, his network, I'm sure a person like you wouldn't understand, but-"

More fist.

He rubbed his throbbing face and continued. "He forced me to choose, John. I either died or you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were all going to. I had to do it, they had to see me jump, so I-"

"You know what? Save me the details, Sherlock," John said. "I don't think I can take it right now."

"I see, John," Sherlock replied. "Well,"

"I can't believe you really did that to me," John said quietly. "To all of us."

"It wasn't something I particularly enjoyed,"

"Well, me neither," he added with a dry laugh. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it, John?"

"Are you going to disappear again?"

Sherlock shook his head.

Tears began to fall from John's raw eyes. His trembling hands drew away from Sherlock's and found the sharp edge of his jaw.

"Good," he whispered, and pulled Sherlock towards him.

They were one, and they were together, and the hole in John's chest was beginning to close. Well, not close, but fill up again. Fill with Sherlock, with the memories of the past, and this present, and hope for the future. And when they broke away, they smiled at each other. John wasn't positive this meant they were together, or that this wasn't a dream, but for the first time in years, he was happy. He let the pain slip away, let it disappear from his mind and his heart. Warm light started to stream in from between the curtains and fill the room with a soft yellow glow. And as they rose from the floor, Sherlock asked: "Chinese?"

"Who cares, I'm not hungry." John replied with a smirk. _Three years, Sherlock,_ he thought. _We've got plenty of time to make up._


End file.
